


artiste

by raffinit



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8123575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raffinit/pseuds/raffinit
Summary: Joel and Tess reminisce about the beauty of Before





	

**Author's Note:**

> don't ever say I haven't ever given y'all fluff

 

He calls in the countryside in the city.

Toppled buildings, brick and concrete faded in the background of green and life and growth; each sprouted weed between the cracks on pavements and walls, the burst of trees between the gaps of stairs and windows and doors that brace against each other. It smells like must and damp and freshness underlying - it’s not quite as thick as he remembers it to be. 

Life and death in the air, all at once. 

Outside the wall here, he hides in the nooks of sunlight and green with her, they smuggle out seeds and plants and grow them amidst the chaos. Fresh fruit, ironically, grows in abundance. He picks them gently, cups them in big, calloused hands like a newborn, unbruised. It’s been just cool enough for berries; everbearers.

Raspberry. Sharp and soft when he feeds them to her one at a time, wipes the burst of red from her lips when she bites down, smiles and licks it off his thumb before she pulls him to her.

She tastes like berries and liquor.

They stare at the sunlight breaking through the branches,streaks of warmth and light on their skin. She presses to him, curls around his chest and lies with her head on his arm as they squint up at the broken ceiling, the faded chipped paintings of cupids and angels; defaced and wingless now, as ugly as the rest of the world.

“Y’know there was this artist. Sculptor we studied in college,” she says, and lets him shift the mass of his arm down. Must’ve gotten numb. “Carved marble so real, it was like they were real people, y’know? Was like lookin’ at people painted white.”

He hums, feeds her another couple berries, licks the taste off his fingers. “S’that right?” he murmurs, and the smell of her hair is tangled in raspberry and grass. The fruit is fat, juicy; tart enough to sting when he chews them, runs them over his tongue and thinks about liking the taste of them on her tongue instead.

“His name was Bernini, I think,” she continues, almost dreamy. Her hand wanders, idle, and touches the skin beneath his shirt, strokes her thin fingers over the warm ruffle of hair down his stomach. “I remember goin’ on a field trip. We looked at it, the sculpture. The way he made those hands - see, it was a sculpture of a couple, y’know, I think it was one of the gods or something, and she was being kidnapped - it looked like they were actually holdin’ her.” Her fingers press into his skin, skim over his side and clutches there, grips tight enough for him to shift closer. 

His hands span over her skin too, pulls her closer, flush to him, and she melts there easily; his fingers, broad and strong, they curve into her hips, her waist, they dig just enough into her skin, and she purrs, sighs into his mouth. Shivers when he rubs them over her spine, possessive, calm.

Her breath is sweet. 

“I remember thinkin’ - thinkin’ about someone payin’ that much attention to detail,” her breath stutters against his neck; the warmth of her body molded against him, the press of her thigh between his. “Wonderin’ how much you had to touch somebody to know what that looked like.”

He rumbles something, a sound low and rough in his throat. “Bet I could carve you outta stone in the dark, sweetheart. Take my eyes from me and I could still shape you down to your freckles.”

Her lips split; she smiles at him, coy, hooded eyes sparking. “Y’think so, old man?” Arches her body to him, purrs when he looms over her in the grass.

“I  _ know _ so,” he growls.


End file.
